


Inevitable Things

by madcap_allie



Series: Inevitable Things [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madcap_allie/pseuds/madcap_allie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes hurt/comfort. In between the nightmares, allusions to self-harm, rough-housing that goes too far, experiments that go awry, and (what we would now recognize as) risky sexual behavior, Charles has to get a handle on his issues before the inevitable happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delirium1995](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=delirium1995).



* * *

  


October 4, 1962  
10:30 pm  
Secret CIA Facility, Fourth Floor Lounge  


  


* * *

If there is one thing you should know about Charles Xavier by now, it is this: _he makes mistakes_.

"You know you're falling into a trap here," Erik said as he returned his bishop to e4, back from a sortie that claimed one of Charles' knights.

Charles made a nonchalant _hmph_ and took another drink of the scotch Erik had nipped from some nameless G-man's office, just barely managing to avoid a telltale collision of the rim of the glass with his teeth. He took his time setting the glass down, hoping to pass it off as being too deep in thought, instead of being too deep in _one too many_. He'd gotten engrossed in the double entendres Erik seemed to be constantly tossing in his direction and forgot to keep track of the liquor, but they took their chess games too seriously for him to call it off on account of inebriation. "Yes, my friend, I do," he temporized, and took a pawn with his remaining knight. "But I assure you I'm doing it with the best of intentions."

Erik smirked and leaned forward to take the knight with his other bishop in one swift move. "And what are your intentions?" he asked, still leaning across the board as though to posses it entirely, his eyes never leaving Charles' as he placed the captured knight to the side.

There had been plenty of this lately. All the little excursions into one another's personal space were numerous, swift and noncommittal. Casual touches to call attention to some small detail; accidental brushes in passing, gazes that linger but not quite too long. Nothing that could be pinned down or pointed to.

Charles found it especially frustrating, because his usual method for finding the answer to " _Does he or doesn't he?_ " was simply to read the mind of his potential suitor, and this was unavailable to him in regards to Erik. It had never mattered to him when dealing with anyone else, but he considered reading Raven's mind to be an invasion of her privacy, and he found himself naturally thinking of Erik in the same way, especially after having been so inadvertently enmeshed in _him_ when they first met. So he was stuck playing the same games and wondering the same things, making the same tentative forays as any other human being faced with uncertainty until something changed to indicate which way Erik's interests lay.

Among other things, Scotch encourages impatience.

Charles didn't smirk or smile, or even, for that matter, _breathe_. He looked down at the board to make sure he'd understood it correctly, picked up his queen and replaced Erik's bishop with it, all while -- and this was the tricky part -- leaning forward slowly and running his tongue over his lips like he usually does before saying something he thinks is particularly meaningful. It was an old sleight-of-hand trick, holding someone's attention through deliberate motion to keep them from following his eyes. When he looked up, he found himself once again caught in Erik's gaze, only now he was barely a hand's width away.

"Check," he said.

Erik didn't bother to look down. He pursed his lips briefly and tilted his head just slightly to the right, the expression he usually wore when Charles did something clever that surprised him. "You'll have to show me."

Charles hadn't intended for their first kiss to be a drunken one, but now that the opportunity had come up, he wasn't about to turn it down just because he'd happened to be drinking. " _I was going to do it anyway_ ," he reasoned to himself, " _it was just a matter of time, and who knows how much of that we have?_ " Instead of backing away and allowing Erik an easy out, he let his gaze slip from Erik's darkened eyes to his mouth as a preamble and leaned forward past the alcohol-tinged haze until their lips met, only to make the happy discovery that Erik was kissing him back, his rough lips parted and their tonguetips grazing, the sweet smoky taste with a slight copper edge lodging itself firmly in Charles' mind forever after as the flavor of Erik's thoughts.

Then just as suddenly he was drowning in a whirlwind of pent-up emotions and memories from Erik's point of view: images of himself in the water after they'd surfaced, his determination and Erik's incredulity; Charles dripping wet on the boat with his hair falling in his eyes, shivering; how he'd gripped the railing during the initial Cerebro test in spite of all his bravado, which only made his bravery that much more honest and respectable in Erik's eyes; the way he'd stood that night outside the CIA doors when Erik had wanted to leave and Charles had said "Everything" when Erik asked "What do you know about me," and he -- no, Erik -- had wondered " _Does that mean you know I want you?_ " even as his mouth said other words, the electric feel of his hand on Erik's shoulder, the feel of his mind in Erik's mind the night they met, the warmth and weight of it -- and he grasped the front of Erik's turtleneck with two fists as he felt the floor fall out beneath him, and Erik's hand was at the back of his head, his fingers tangling in his hair, holding him steady into a deeper kiss full of wanting even as the images snapped suddenly into focus on Charles gasping and shuddering as the full effect of Cerebro hit him and it was like it was happening all over again, and now Erik had pulled away, and his eyes were open and full of concern.

"You are a _fantastic_ kisser," Charles said breathlessly as the world righted itself.

" _Scheisse_ ," Erik muttered quietly, while holding him upright in a half-open embrace, preserving the sanctity of the chessboard beneath them. He glanced down at Charles' white-knuckled hands still clenched tight on his shirt, and with all seriousness asked "Charles, are you drunk? Do you need to lie down?"

"A little of the former, but as for the latter," Charles paused and met Erik's eyes, and thought to himself " _only if we're naked_."

Erik laughed out a breath he must have been holding, and then he grinned and said "Careful. Think it, and it's as good as done." So much for thinking to himself; apparently there was no hope of that when Erik was so close.

"I'd much rather actually do it than just think it, for the fun is--" but Erik was kissing him again, and this time the chess pieces were knocked into disarray as Charles found himself lifted out of his chair and onto the floor. He felt his cufflinks unclasp and raised his head to watch in amusement as his belt buckle undid itself. "You must not be as drunk as I am," he accused Erik, who was crouched over him and starting to unbutton Charles' shirt.

"You have your tricks," Erik retorted, "and I have mine."

* * *

  


October 1, 1962  
8:30 pm  
USCGC _Humboldt_ , Atlantic coast off Florida  


  


* * *

For a few good hours there, Charles Xavier had been an action hero. He'd left London at midnight, walked in to the CIA by invitation at 11 in the morning, revealed his mutation to humans for the first time (as had Raven, he mustn't forget that), convinced the suit-and-tie spooks to take him on immediately as a consultant operative and here he was off the coast of Florida shortly after nightfall, the star player of the team that had commandeered a Coast Guard cutter and two dozen highly trained sailor-soldiers, and was at this very moment struggling to contain their losses against Sebastian Shaw. He had been thrilled to finally put his gifts to the test against a real opponent, unburdened by ambiguity and his uncertain ethics. He had been just as quickly rendered nearly useless because -- as improbable as it might be -- there was another telepath in the enemy's ranks.

 _How common is telepathy among mutants?_ he wondered as he struggled to keep his thoughts hovering just outside the other telepath's reach, even as the Man in Black herded Moira McTaggart fast on Charles' heels down the stairs into the ship's lower decks. _And although there's a little sense of numbness, the steel isn't proving to be nearly as much interference as I thought it might._ A sense of relief in the face of near-defeat, then; he'd learned to keep observing and thinking even in the spotlight when preparing for this thesis defense -- so few days ago! -- and it had already become a habit.

The other telepath's attention was like a pressure in his head, not acutely painful but not gentle or easily ignored -- _is that how Raven knew when I was checking in on her, not just her usual bloody good guesswork? I've never noticed the same awareness in humans; perhaps they feel it but don't recognize it for what it is. Or is this something that only telepaths, or perhaps mutants in general, can sense?_ \-- and then it lifted abruptly with a final jab that made him wince, and by reflex his mind went rushing after it towards Shaw's ship, even as he recognized that it could be a trap of some sort.

But he came up short. He braced himself against the bulkhead automatically when Moira thumped solidly into his back, and realized belatedly that he had stopped moving; in fact, he felt that the whole world had come crashing to a sudden stop, and was surprised to find that the others were still inexplicably in motion, unaware of what he'd found. "We've got to go back, there's another mutant out there!" he explained, turning abruptly to run back to where the action was. He needed to see with his eyes what he saw with this mind.

His heart had been pounding when they were running down those skinny steel stairs below decks. Charles marveled that now, back on deck in the brisk night air with danger all around, he found himself feeling weightless, as though he had passed into the calm of a storm he hadn't known was raging. There above the water was a massive anchor and chain whipping about Shaw's yacht like a living weapon, an enchanted thing of such terrifying beauty that it stole his breath away. And in the water's darkness, with the taste of salt in his mouth and such incredible purpose in his mind, was _Erik Lehnsherr_.

That sense of identity was so strong that it must have been tempered by something frightful. Charles stood on the deck of the ship, gripping the railing to keep himself from trying to fly. He noted the fear radiating off those around him, but he was so completely overwhelmed by his own sense of exhilaration at finding Erik, at witnessing Erik's forceful mastery of his mutant abilities, the beautiful precision of Erik's mind, that for the first time in his life he forgot to pretend he didn't feel superior to the humans behind him.

And then it fell to pieces.

Something strange happened on the ripped-up yacht, and it jerked oddly and lurched aside. Erik's shock turned to anger, and Charles saw through his perception that the bottom -- "the keel of the hull" Erik's mind supplied -- was actually a submarine which was now beginning to dive. Anger turned to desperation as Erik abandoned his hold on the anchor chain and tried to grasp the submarine sinking in the water, but without the benefit of something else on which to fasten his mind's eye, his hold on Shaw's submarine started to pull Erik under the water's surface. Charles' stomach twisted horribly as he realized what was happening.

He'd left the railing. He was shouting desperately for someone to get in the water to rescue Erik, as Erik's own desperation began to turn into acceptance. He sensed the minds frozen in shock all around him -- most of whom hadn't seen or accepted that the object forming a small wake behind the now-invisible submarine was actually a _person_ dammit -- and he knew the would-be rescuers were too far away, trying to rescue themselves after the capsizing of the small boats they'd intended to use for boarding.

His coat was off when he reached the little platform and he leapt in the water headfirst; he'd just enough presence of mind to recall his diving lessons before his hands hit the water. His eyes stung in the saltwater but there was enough illumination from the search lights that he could see Erik's sleek form before him, and he reached out with his mind and his arms at the same time. Erik fought him, of course. _The dying always do_ , his mother would have said bitterly (she had never forgiven his father for dying), and he cursed the memory even while he struggled to re-bond with Erik's now furiously whirling mind and flailing body. But Charles won out in the end, and though he worried at first that Erik would just take a gulp of air and dive again to give chase like a shark fixated on its prey, he was immensely, deeply pleased to find Erik focusing all his attention on him instead.

Except that he couldn't make his legs kick or his arms wave sufficiently to keep his head above the water, for the onslaught of sheer emotion that came with that attention was more than he'd ever dealt with before. If the initial brush of Erik's mind was a veritable thunderbolt, this was the deep reverberation of the air rushing back in to fill the vacuum from everywhere at once -- hatred and despair being replaced by terror, awe, and something else, something indescribable that Charles couldn't stop trying to figure out, something that made his chest tight and the blood in his ears sing. Maybe it was just the primal response to being immersed in dark water where the waves were bigger than they'd looked from the safety of the ship, and his clothes were weighing him down more than he would have expected, and he was going to drown if his circumstances didn't change soon, but looking in Erik's eyes he was struck with the notion that all his plans for the future were nothing but a little boy's made-up stories fit only for the playroom, and it would be a terrible, horrible thing to die now, having only just met the most fascinating person in the world.

Who just happened to be killing him with the maelstrom of his emotions, because Charles apparently had neither self-restraint nor self-control where Erik was concerned, and could not disentangle his awareness from the other man's, not even enough to remember how to tread water properly.

"Calm your mind!" Charles said, making it sound as much like an order as he could. _Erik responds to orders_ , he knew. Erik flinched -- a quick intake of breath, a slight drawing back, all automatic and impossible to hide, especially with Charles still in Erik's mind -- and the slap of a wave against his face was familiar, though far too light. _And Erik responds to pain_ , Charles saw, aghast; and quietly, somehow managing to keep the thought to himself: _My God, Erik, how could they do this to you?_ But he knew what had been done and who'd done it, he'd seen so much history flash through Erik's mind as the submarine slipped out of his grasp; the _why_ of it was not hard to guess at, but his empathy stuttered and failed to comprehend how anyone could do that to a person.

"I heard you in my head!" The words fell from Erik in a rush, laced with shock and indignation, curiosity and awe. "How did you do that?!"

"You have your tricks, I have mine." Tricks, he and Raven had called them when they were children, and so they referred to them still. "I'm like you."

"I thought I was alone," Erik said, and the tightness in Charles' chest lifted and was replaced with a warmth he usually only felt towards Raven.

"You are not alone," Charles told him in-between gasps for air amongst the swells. "Erik, you're not alone." He might have said "Calm your mind" again, but what he really meant to say was "I've got you, now."

* * *

  


October 4, 1962  
10:50 pm  
Secret CIA Facility, Fourth Floor Lounge  


  


* * *

Erik was leaning in for another kiss, eyes half-lidded and lips parted, when he suddenly stilled, looking towards the door.

"We're not alone," he said, his voice low, cautious.

Charles reached out, brushed his mind against -- "Moira," he said, rolling out from underneath Erik, who was now scowling at the closed door even as he leapt to his feet.

"So what if she sees?" he muttered, eyes narrowed. "She works for the CIA, isn't she supposed to know everyone's secrets?"

"It's illegal, Erik," Charles zipped his fly and buttoned it, fastened his belt hurriedly and tumbled back in his chair. He was shoving his sleeves up as the door opened -- from the look of surprise on Moira's face and her upraised hand poised to knock, Erik had used his power to open it.

"And eavesdropping isn't," Erik noted. The chill between Erik and Moira was palpable, even through the flush Charles still felt from… well, from having just been about to perform an illegal act he'd been very much looking forward to, if he'd been lucky.

Moira dropped her hand but remained hovering on the threshold. "You found the chessboard," she said, and from the disappointment in her voice it was clear that she'd taken the scene in and had probably come to the correct conclusion. "Raven said you might be playing. I'm sorry for interrupting your game," -- this directed to Erik -- "but I just got word that the funding authorization for active recruitment came through." She squared her shoulders and walked carefully into the room, passing Erik to stand between the two of them. She looked down at the board, on which two pieces were miraculously still standing, then at Charles for a long moment. "We've got a meeting with Smith in accounting at 8 in the morning, and then you two are good to go, as requested."

"Just the two of us?" Erik prompted, his whole body still but tensed, leonine behind her.

"Yes." She raised her hand with two fingers up mimicking Charles' habitual gesture, her eyes wide in a silent appeal. Out loud she continued, "I'll be handling logistics from here."

 _Everywhere is bugged_ she thought, so loudly Charles hardly had to concentrate. _I can't cover for everything. I'd lose my job if they knew I told you_. He nodded and leaned around her to catch Erik's eye, passed the warning on to him.

"I'm glad to know we're in good hands, Agent McTaggart," Charles said, smiling up at her.

Erik's shoulders relaxed a little, and he turned to Charles with an expression somewhere between triumphant and smug. "We should take the chessboard, Charles. I'll be up for a game every night, if you are."

Charles couldn't help the smile, even as he silently damned Erik for his cheekiness and for being mean to Moira. Erik's possessiveness was… flattering.

"The meeting's in nine hours." Moira's voice was grim. "There are certainly no rules against civilians having an evening cocktail, but sobriety at meetings is appreciated." She turned on her heel and started to leave.

"Won't there be coffee?" Erik asked her. She paused at the doorframe, looked at him over her shoulder with a small, almost imperceptible sigh.

"The cafeteria opens at 7:30. Help yourself." And then she was gone, the sound of her heels on the linoleum floor echoing away down the hall. Charles was impressed that she managed to keep the bitterness out of her voice, and sorry that there was any cause for it in the first place. But there was Erik with that half-smile paying at his lips, and the mischievous look in his eyes as he gazed at Charles, and…

"Looks like it's all work and no play at the CIA, Charles," Erik tossed the remainder of his drink back in one smooth swig.

"Indeed, my friend, and more's the pity. I'll pack the board."

Erik went to the door, then turned to lean against the frame where Moira had just been and regarded Charles for a long moment, his hands jammed in his pockets. "I'm looking forward to it," he said finally.

"I hope you don't mind being beaten, overly much" Charles said. He found himself immediately biting down the urge to cringe, chagrined; he wouldn't have spoken so brashly, but talking his skills up for the benefit of anyone listening now or in the future was so automatic he hadn't realized he was doing it until the words spilled out of his mouth. It was a habit he didn't like, defending the mighty PhD, as though having a doctorate of science from Oxford meant he's supposed to be good at anything and everything requiring intelligence, even though he knew better.

But Erik didn't know about Oxford, or if he did, he chose to respond to a different taunt entirely.

"No one's ever been able to beat me _overly much_ ," he said, placing a gentle emphasis on the words in completely the wrong way. "If you can do it," he added, still with that level expression that gave so little away, "you're welcome to it." Then he nodded a goodnight and left Charles to himself. Erik's soft steps were out of earshot three steps from the door; Charles let his thoughts trail after him, guiltily savoring the feel of Erik's graceful walk, habitually quiet and smooth and alert, always hunting. He stayed with Erik as he went down a flight of stairs, slipped down a side hall to avoid a lit office, and passed the elevators to head down another flight of stairs. He let the contact go when Erik opened the door to his spartan assigned room, a dorm that looked identical to his own; Charles knew what he was going to do as soon as he got to his own room, the only thing he could possibly do given the circumstances. Whether Erik was going to do the same was Erik's own business.

* * *

  


October 1, 1962  
9:10 pm  
USCGC _Humboldt_ , Atlantic coast off Florida  


  


* * *

"Name!" the officer shouted at Erik, right after he hauled the man up over the rail and deposited him on the steel deck.

"That can wait!" Charles yelled through his chattering teeth. Saltwater was dripping from his hair into his eyes, and it stung, which strongly suggested the adrenalin was wearing off. "We're not going anywhere, there's plenty of time for that later--"

The officer spared Charles a calculating glance, just long enough to say " _You're_ going to sickbay. Jameson! Morris! Take Mr. Xavier to sickbay and get him something dry." He was still looming over Erik, who was half-sprawled on the deck against the railing, when Jameson and Morris hauled Charles to his feet and slipped their arms under his armpits and across his back, as if he was a drunk partygoer and they were taking him home.

"That man is on _our side_! You've no right to interrogate him!" Charles yelled over his shoulder as he was hustled toward an open hatch. He tried to brace his feet against the bottom lip of the doorframe to give him a little extra time, but mostly he just succeeded in stumbling and taking down one of the seamen who was supporting him. He dearly wished he had enough energy to wrestle his right arm free and give the boor of an officer a mental push in the right direction, but his arms were like lead weights, and so was the rest of him. When he looked over towards Erik, he saw Moira in profile, looking first at the officer and Erik, then at Charles, her lips pressed together in a thin, unhappy line. It was all rather embarrassing.

"Hold on there, sir, I've almost got you," the seaman said with a politeness incongruous with the very firm hold he had on Charles and the effort it took to get back to his feet from underneath nearly all of Charles' weight. "Just a moment, and we'll get you to sick bay. Sorry there's no rum on board, but the doc'll get you some tea and you--" and Charles was manhandled through the hatch and into the hallway, his feet having lost all purchase with the floor, --"and you'll… ah… you'll be…"

"Chipper in no time," his compatriot finished for him. Charles could feel the laugh behind the professional military deadpan, even though most of his psychic attention was still with Erik. Ah yes, burly American men making fun of his British accent; no doubt they'll be making a point to offer him _biscuits_ next.

They left him on a vinyl bench in a tiny room that somehow reeked of hospital, overwhelming even the saltwater smell clinging to his clothes and skin. A moment later Jameson returned to toss him a thin wool blanket, and left with a curt reminder to stay in the room and out of the way. But Charles didn't have to wait alone for long; Erik was deposited on the opposite bench shortly after, and they shared a brief eyeroll at their rescuer-captors before Erik leaned forward with his hands on his knees and asked Charles if he was alright.

Charles felt his eyes widen and his pulse speed up -- for a moment it was like being trapped in someone else's body, which seemed to be reacting to Erik's words without waiting for him to catch up -- and then he shrugged and shook his head to get his hair out of his eyes, breaking the spell. "I'm fine," he said, clutching the blanket tighter around shoulders. "After all, I wasn't in the water nearly as long as you were."

Erik's lips curled up in a half-smile. "Unlike you, I was dressed for it." He indicated his wetsuit and was about to say something more when the medical officer stormed in, placed towels and a pile of clothing on the table that took up the majority of the room, and spun abruptly to face Charles.

"OK. Clothes off, and they go in this duffel. You can towel dry while I examine you, then put on dry underclothes and we'll get some more blankets on you." He watched Charles fumble with the first button -- his fingers still felt frozen and unresponsive -- and then reached over and matter-of-factly pulled the shirt and sweater up over his head in and into the duffle in one swift motion. "Up" he said, and Charles stood up, feeling a little stupid at being too slow to undress himself, but more impressed at the speed with which the officer stripped off his wet clothes and got him down to bare skin.

The doctor gave him a quick glance, his hands on Charles' shoulders to steady him as the floor pitched for no apparent reason -- "McSweeny," the medical officer muttered, and Charles couldn't help but overhear his next thought " _Fer crissake, kid can't find a quarter-sea boogie if it slapped him in the face and asked him to dance,_ " which meant something about not being able to align the bow of the boat across the incoming waves at a certain angle that the ship preferred; and the fact that he was picking up all this mental detritus meant that Charles' control was practically nonexistent. If he didn't pull himself together soon, he'd be overwhelmed by the minutiae of strangers' thoughts. Overwhelmed was useless, and uselessness simply did not become Charles Xavier.

"Bit of rope burn, couple bruises and minor abrasions, probably got that cut coming up over the rail." Charles focused on the medical officer's voice, willing himself not to hear the thoughts underneath as the man whipped a towel around Charles' hips, guided him back down onto the bench and placed another towel on his shoulders. He grimaced and bit his lip to keep from gasping when the alcohol swab passed over the long cut above his ankle -- really, he hadn't felt it at all before the alcohol lit it up with a sensation of intense burning -- and Charles had just a moment to glance at Erik, who was grinning at him tiredly and shaking his head, before the doctor was done placing the bandage and stood up again, blocking his view. _Damn the doc!_ , Charles thought uncharitably as the man placed his right hand firmly on his head and thumbed his left eyelid up, pointing a bright little flashlight at his eye. Bright-dark-bright-dark, look down, look up, OK -- then the same thing on the right eye, and a gruff, "You'll live. Put on some dry things and get that blanket tucked around you again."

Charles reached for the stack of clothes on the table as the doctor turned to Erik.

"Now for you, Kraut --"

Whether the metal in the room was actually humming, or it was just humming in Erik's mind and Charles was still privy to it, the sound made Charles' blood run cold. He had his fingers at his temple immediately, and the medical officer stopped with his hand outstretched towards Erik's face.

"I'm fine," Erik said with no inflection at all.

"He's fine," Charles echoed, doing that thing where he slipped inside a human's mind and gave them thoughts to think.

"You're fine." the medical officer replied.

Erik cocked his head a little to the right, then darted Charles a quick look.

"But he could use some dry clothes." Charles added.

"But you could use some dry clothes. I'll have Jameson find you something, and then you can go back to your stateroom," the medical officer continued, as Charles let his hand drop back to his side. "Once our boys are back on board, we'll be heading to homeport. 3 hours, most likely. Just stay out of the way, please."

Erik watched the doctor walk out the hatch and close it behind him, dumbfounded and staring with his mouth gaping open, then turned wide-eyed to Charles.

"So you're a--" Charles started to ask, finally picking up a white cotton t-shirt and slipping it on.

" _Metall-bender_ " Erik supplied, giving the words a distinct German crispness. "And you're a, what?"

"Telepath." He stepped further behind the table so he could drop the towel without feeling quite so self-conscious. "But I think you're more than just a metal bender, my friend. Those weren't spoons you used to disable Shaw's boat."

"And you don't just hear other people's thoughts. You were a voice in my head. And… and you controlled him like a puppet!"

"Well, not exactly." Charles hurried to say, discomfited by Erik's apparent awe at what he'd done. "But yes, my mutation has several manifestations, as I suspect yours does."

Erik shrugged unhappily. "And limitations, too."

"Yes, of course. I believe exploring those limitations can provide the key to understanding our gifts. I feel as though I'm just beginning to find my limitations, myself. I've never encountered another telepath, and to be blocked so completely -- there must be a way around it, but I need to… And you! You're…"

As if conjuring a ghost by saying its name, Charles fell into Erik's mind as soon as he tried and failed to express in words what Erik _was_ \-- and Erik was laid bare. The pain in his chest and the tightness in his ribs -- bruised? -- were from the crystalline woman's terrifically forceful palm-heel. The exhaustion was from having slept only six hours in the past three days, and the recent exertion in the water and the effort it took to bend and focus the magnetic fields. On the edge of everything was an incredible sense of failure, creating a ragged sort of tunnel vision, barely held in check by the hope of a second chance; the sharp focus in the center was less bright than before, but still there, and underneath it all was a deep sense of purpose, dark and limitless as an abyss.

"Excuse me," Charles said, trying to reel himself in again, pinching the bridge of his nose to help draw him back. "You're exhausted, and I'm being a terrible host. I probably should have let the medical officer look you over--."

Erik stood up abruptly. "I take care of myself," he said. His tone of voice said _This is a fact_ , and the set of his shoulders said _There is no arguing with facts_.

"The stateroom they assigned me is a double," Charles offered. "And…" he cautiously raised his hand to his temple again, trying to concentrate past the fascinating glimmer that was Erik back into the chaotic mess of thoughts of the sailors on the ship, to " _Moira! We're heading to my stateroom_."

" _Good, things are too nuts up here. Need any help with that guy?_ " Moira was on the bridge, tucked shoulder-to-shoulder between the radioman and the second mate, keeping an eye on the ongoing recovery, seething with annoyance and worry and, incongruously, wondering if she had time to reapply her lipstick.

" _Erik's fine. We'll be out of the way_."

" _Thanks. Can you get out of my head now and let me do my work?_ "

" _Of course, love. You know where to find us_."

Charles yanked the stiff handle of the door down and swung it open. "No point in waiting," he said.

Erik was holding the duffle with Charles' clothes in one hand and handed him the blanket with the other. "You'll want this." Their hands touched, briefly; Charles felt a flush in his cheeks as he swung the blanket around his shoulders and turned to lead the way. These things were certainly unrelated.

* * *

  
October 5, 1962  
Sometime before 6:30 am  
Secret CIA Facility, Visitor Suite, #212  


  


* * *

"You will move the coin." A disembodied voice. Cold. Clinical.

The words were German, and that was Charles' first clue that he was not in his own dream; he should wake up, he should do this awake; no, he shouldn't do this at all; he can't do anything but watch when he's asleep, and shouldn't he be having his own dreams now?

But the coin was not a coin, it was a knife, and the substitution was too intriguing.

"You know what will happen if you do not move the coin."

There _was_ a coin -- in front of him, on the desk. The knife was -- he knew without seeing, in the curious logic of dreams -- hovering over the back of his neck, threatening him with its single-minded malevolence. He was shirtless, and the knife was dipping down to rest its point where the neck met the shoulder. The coin resolutely refused to move.

"Anger is motivation enough for normal people. But not you. You need to hurt."

The knife pierced the skin, sharp pain drawing all his attention in an instant. Charles would have woken up, but he was trapped in place, unable to move as the knife drew a long line down his back, was returned to his shoulder, pierced the skin, began another long searing cut down. Someone was looming over him, holding him in place. "I am always happy to hurt you," the voice said, "if this is what you need. Move the coin."

But there was no coin. There was only the knife, cutting his back to shreds, slow and methodical. He turned to look at the wielder behind him, but behind him there were only dead bodies on the ground, lying in an ever-widening pool of blood.

Charles woke in a cold sweat. Of course there was only one person whose dream that could have been. He rolled out of the narrow bed, still groggy from sleep, and stumbled into the tiny bathroom to brush his teeth. Then he stumbled into the shower and stood under the barely lukewarm spray with his arms braced against the wall, imagining the water washing the blood off his back into a pool at his feet before swirling down the drain. He could almost see it, could almost taste it. He wished the nausea he felt was just a simple hangover, and not due to the fact that last night he'd learned what human death smelled like, from the dream-memories of someone who knew first hand.

He was dressed and collecting his things at 7:15 when he felt Erik nearby, thinking " _Can you hear me, Charles?_ "

" _I can always hear you_ ," Charles thought back, tucking his folder of notes under his arm and scanning the room for anything he didn't want to leave behind for curious eyes. " _Come on in. The door's not locked against you_."

" _Funny, the same was true about the cafeteria_." The lock clicked as the handle turned slowly, and a moment later the door swung open to reveal Erik holding two mugs of coffee in his hands and a slight frown on his face. " _That shouldn't have been so hard_." Frustration and disappointment.

" _But obviously you were up to the task_ ," Charles thought, smiling in spite of himself at Erik. "Good morning," he said out loud as he took the proffered mug. "And thank you. How did you sleep last night?”

“Same as always,” Erik replied with a shrug.

"Me too," Charles lied. Erik had closed up, with not a whisper of surface thought for him to latch on to, and he would not delve into Erik's mind uninvited. But he hoped.

* * *

  
October 1, 1962  
10 pm  
USCGC _Humboldt_ , Atlantic coast off Florida  


  


* * *

He had entered Erik's mind accidentally on several occasions already. The first time, of course, when Charles had jumped in the ocean to keep Erik from dying. The second was later that night, in the stateroom that was just long enough for narrow twin bunks stacked one atop the other, just wide enough to allow a person to stand between the beds and the shallow metal cabinets lining the other wall. It was nigh impossible to avoid touching one another in such a small space, so Charles clambered into the upper bunk in an effort to get out of the tall German's way as quickly as he could.

Erik closed the door, muttered about the lack of a locking mechanism, and with a reflexive flick of the wrist deformed the edge of the frame to keep the door from swinging into the room. Charles watched his shoulders slump ever so slightly, felt from Erik that with the outside safely locked outside, it was finally permissible to relax. As soon as he did, though, Erik reached a hand to his diaphragm, hissing lightly.

"I can help, if you'd like," Charles offered, pivoting onto an elbow, trying to keep his head from brushing the ceiling.

He started lifting his fingers to his temple, but Erik said "No thanks," over his shoulder, "I've got it." The zipper at the back of his wetsuit glided open easily, untouched. It practically peeled itself off his shoulders, the sides of the zipper leading the way until Erik could comfortably roll the thick, wet material the rest of the way down, revealing old scars faded white that criss-crossed from his shoulder blades down past his hips.

Charles promptly fell back down on the bunk and stared at the ceiling. He didn't want to be lecherous. Really, he didn't. "I meant I could help turn the pain off. It's one of my tricks." Pure force of will kept his voice from sounding strangled.

"I--" Erik was toweling himself dry. Charles could practically hear the frown in the pause. "It's not enough to warrant that." Erik slid into the bunk below him, not bothering to even look for underclothes.

Charles didn't have to imagine the feel of scratchy sheets against bare skin; he had only thought of it when he was immediately feeling it from Erik. Since he couldn't seem to pull his awareness away completely, he settled on attempting to rest as quietly as possible in the outermost part of Erik's mind, just lightly aware of the body's sensations. Erik was asleep in 5 breaths; and then deeply asleep, well past dreaming or feeling the tightness in his ribs or -- because he slept so very deeply -- being aware of the memories that Charles accidentally tripped across as he scanned Erik's body, in case there was something serious that he'd missed earlier.

There was the perpetual tightness in the back of Erik's neck, the tension from his head being held firmly in place while Shaw tortured him as a child, every day for the first year he was in his care, less often after that. There were the fingers that had been systematically broken with a small metal hammer until Erik had been able to flatten the hammer into the shape Shaw desired. And there was a sick feeling associated with the inside of his left forearm, a sense of loss of self and dignity that was the tattooing of the identification number upon his entry to Auschwitz, and that was when Charles felt tears leaving hot tracks slipping from the corners of his own eyes toward his ears, before falling on the pillow with tiny slaps.

He couldn't possibly sleep. He kept watch over Erik's slumber until the ship's engines slowed and she eased into port.

* * *

  
October 5, 1962  
8 am  
Secret CIA Facility, Meeting Room, #134a  


  


* * *

" --uninvited. The Powers That Be are not of the opinion that rules for making contact with potential informants apply here." Erik opened the door silently with his powers, then held it open for Charles with his hand, playing human. The director opened his mouth in annoyance; Agent Stryker merely frowned slightly, and Charles could feel him make another mental tick against mutants in his ledger -- dammit, but the man was infuriating. Moira glanced at Erik and Charles with cool professionalism, while her thoughts were a litany of _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck please don't touch each other please don't look at each other please don't use that tone of voice with each other Stryker's harping on every fucking little reason to shut us down, and for some godforsaken reason the Director listens to him, never mind Shaw, fuck fuck fuck fuck_. Charles had no idea she swore like that, although given how much she was at ease with the sailors on the ship, he supposed he could have guessed it. He favored her with a warm smile and took the seat next to her.

"Good morning, Agent McTaggart, gentlemen," he said, "I confess I'm surprised to see you all here. I was under the impression this was a simple formality regarding travel expenditures and signing the appropriate forms."

And then Raven slipped through the door before Erik had a chance to close it. She was dressed like a secretary, dark brown hair coifed primly at the base of her neck, a pencil skirt and sweater set in light colors, skimming a more slight, bonier body than her own natural form. She made a tiny mouse-like squeak when Erik stopped her with a hand against her shoulder, winning yet another glare from Stryker and yet another tick in that ledger.

" _Raven, for God's sake, what are you--?_ "

"Here's the coffee," Raven said to the gathering in a voice with a soft Southern accent, holding her tray as though the carafe was too heavy to balance the cups crowded on the opposite side, holding it as though she could somehow hide behind it if she could just keep it steady. She turned a shy glance to the Director. "I'm sorry sir, they were out of cream at the cafeteria, said it had curdled overnight, so I had to go --"

"That's enough, Anna." Stryker said.

" _This man is a schmuck, Charles. I've been watching him. You wouldn't believe the way he treats his people._ " Raven/Anna placed the tray on a small table in the far corner of the room, then proceeded to quietly place the cups one by one at each person's side, melting into the background effortlessly. " _I'm not going to leave you alone in a room with him._ "

He smiled in spite of himself. " _Amazing. A top secret meeting, and you get to sit in completely unquestioned simply by waitressing?_ " he thought to her. He took the folder Moira handed him and opened it.

" _An old fart told me you can learn a lot by studying_ ," she thought back. " _And I studied a lot of waitresses._ "

Charles cut off a short laugh, pointed to the number at the bottom of the first page and leaned in to Moira. "How does it work out that a quarter million dollars is appropriated for this venture, but Erik and I are only allotted enough funds to cover stays at Travelodge motels, rental cars and airline tickets only as far west as Omaha?"

"Security costs," Stryker answered for her. "Adjustments need to be made at this facility to increase security for dealing with your… recruits."

"And we can't afford recruitment activities on the west coast. Politically or otherwise," the Director added.

"These are our people," Erik growled from his place by the door. He hadn't bothered sitting yet. "We'll contact them on our terms."

"They may be 'your people', but they're going to become agents of the federal government," Moira pointed out. "There are rules you need to follow." She leveled a cool gaze at her boss. "Age of consent applies, for example."

"No children is fine," Director McCone replied. "No one has a problem with that."

"And consent, presumably." Erik's voice had that edge to it that dared anyone to disagree. Charles wondered if he was spoiling for a fight, still grappling with their mutual denial last night, or the nightmare of his memories.

Better to head it off at the pass. "That's not even a question, here." Charles said calmly. "We are not about to drag anyone into working against their will. For one thing, everyone whose mind I touched during the Cerebro experiment -- _every single one_ \-- is either unaware of their mutation or keeping it secret. The reasons for their secrecy are individual, but we have to respect them. Secondly, the CIA -- _we_ \-- simply cannot rely on people forced to work against their will. That never works. History is full of examples." He tried his level best not to glare at Stryker, how could anyone in this day and age possibly _think_ like that? "Every economy based on slavery has failed, to cite an obvious one."

"We're not here to waste time discussing history, Professor." Stryker grumbled, drinking his coffee with obvious relish.

" _I'm amazed you didn't spit in his coffee, Raven._ "

" _It was hard_ ," she thought back. She'd gotten up and was silently, invisibly refilling Moira's cup. " _But I'm not giving him any excuses to berate Anna. Did I mention he's a schmuck? Moira said he demanded she come in early on her day off just because he wouldn't face a meeting without his precious coffee._ "

"Speaking of time… most of the contacts reported by Hank are unfortunately out of the country, or too young to drive." The man in the black suit, the one who actually runs the facility, the one who believes in mutants whole-heartedly, the one who has Superman comics still stashed under his bed in the bachelor pad he goes home to late at night finally pipes up. He's a little nervous, but excited, too. "So Dr. Xavier will have to fine-tune his use of Cerebro to locate mutants of the appropriate age range within our borders. Hank analyzed the output from the initial Cerebro test-run, and based on the statistics estimates two weeks' worth of continued experimentation --"

"5 days," Stryker countered. He shared a brief nod with the Director, became bolder with the approval. "You have 5 days to get this damn show on the road."

"But Cerebro should only be used for an hour a day. Hank believes--"

"We all know scientists believe in perfection rather than practicalities," the Director cut the Man in Black off mid-sentence, dismissing his concerns with a wave of the hand, calling to mind Erik's gesture for locking metal doors that were not equipped with locks. "The Cerebro installation is a tool, not a work of art." He turned to Charles. "There are 24 hours in a day, and you have 5 days to come up with a list of viable recruits. I trust you can figure out the details _Professor_."

"Certainly." Charles acceded with a nod of the head. "Sebastian Shaw has too much of a lead on us as it is, and we've no interest in giving him any more advantage than he already has."

The silence after Charles' proclamation went on a little too long, and -- as annoying as it was -- he knew they expected him to be reading their minds. So he forged ahead, though he resented having to do so.

"And no, Director McCone, Agent Stryker, I'm sorry, but… Erik is required because his unique mutation enables him to adjust the wiring and efficiency of Cerebro while it is in use, and -- my sister Raven and I share a telepathic bond that I simply _must_ rely on if I am to use Cerebro for the 6 or 8 hours a day that is being demanded here. And when we are not actively using Cerebro, Hank will be analyzing the results, and the three of us must begin training for the inevitable confrontation with Shaw. So -- No, Erik and Raven are not available for your---" his could not keep his mouth from curling in distaste -- " _dog and pony_ shows."

"It would help procure funding in the future," the Director said simply.

"We can revisit it later," the Man in Black offered. "Right now, our first priority is building a team capable of removing the threat posed by Shaw."

"Only Mr. Lehnsherr and Dr. Xavier are authorized to recruit. As your charming sister has no demands on her time, she can surely demonstrate her abilities in a controlled environment." Agent Stryker's voice was deceptively reasonable, his eyes narrowed. "We're not asking for anything more than she has already shown."

"Actually," Moira interjected, "Ms. Xavier is responsible for welcoming the new recruits and providing orientation. Hank is already busy with a number of projects--" she looked at the Man in Black, who did a quick count and held up 7 fingers -- " _seven_ projects, and I'll be going over details and showing her the ropes while they" she tipped her head towards Charles "are out contacting the first recruit."

Charles suppressed a sigh as the phrase "show her the ropes" rippled through the men's minds around him.

"Fine. We'll revisit it later," the Director had noticed his watch, and the agenda for his next meeting was already at the forefront of his mind. "I think we've covered all the important issues. Moira, you can walk them through the paperwork. Gentlemen." Moira stood when the Director, the Man in Black and Agent Stryker stood, and followed them out the door. Anna/Raven collected the cups on her tray, placed the carafe in front of Erik with a wink, and slipped out the door. Charles overheard Moira say "Thank you Anna. I'm sorry about the late notice."

Raven/Anna replied with some pleasantry, but all Charles could hear clearly -- echoed in Moira's head with annoyance -- was that it ended in "all right, _Sugar_ ". He put his head in his hands.

"Are you alright, Charles?" Erik asked. "You can't have been surprised by any of that."

Charles put his fingers to his temple, even though it was unnecessary at this point. He just wanted to be clear. " _That was Raven pouring our coffee._ "

Erik mouthed a silent "Oh". Then picked up his cup -- the cup he'd taken from the cafeteria earlier -- took a sip, and winked at him. " _She's good. I actually thought a skinny human was flirting with me._ "

"Don't get me started," Charles said out loud, darkly.

Erik rolled the cup in his hands, testing the weight. "I don't particularly enjoy this bureaucracy nonsense, myself," he mused. "Action is better. We should do the majority of our training early in the day, before you play lab-rat. Then after we're done picking you up off the floor and peeling those electrodes off your overheated skull, we can all go for a run. Builds stamina, doesn't require brains. Or perhaps we should run first thing in the morning, when you're still able to."

"Is that really how you think this will go, Erik? That I'll be reduced to a puddle after the next 5 days? I didn't know you cared."

"I care," Erik replied with a ghost of a smile. "Without you, we're at the mercy of these paper-pushing sharks. And I don't want to have to go on the recruiting trip alone." He lounged back in the office chair the way he had last night, deceptively relaxed. "Who would I play chess with?"

And if Moira noticed the way Charles and Erik were looking at each other when she led Accounting Specialist Smith into the room, she did not acknowledge it.

* * *

  
October 4, 1962  
3:00 pm  
Secret CIA Facility, Cerebro Installation  


  


* * *

Using Cerebro the first time had been exhilarating in the worst way. Charles did feel like a lab rat -- though perhaps not an "adorable" one, and why had Erik used that word on him, anyway? -- and he felt bad for the lab rats that had breathed and bred and died for him and his professors' research. That feeling stayed with him from the moment he walked onto the platform until the machine turned on; it came on with a jolt that yanked him up and out, and suddenly he felt like he was a sponge turned inside out. Part of him was out there, reaching in all directions, touching so many minds, so very expansive. The other part of him, the tiny part, the limited pile of blood and flesh and bones was a conduit to the spherical interior of Cerebro, and everything he felt in the great out there was funneled down to that tiny point, and projected to fill that interior space. There were wires that carried only very specific pieces of information -- coordinates in latitude and longitude for every successful contact -- but the rest just poured out of him. Hank was somehow impervious, protected by his engineer's tunnel-vision focus on the data coming across the wires, which reduced Charles' outpouring to nothing more than a background hum. But Erik and Raven had no such buffer, and were naked and exposed to whatever of Charles' experience they could grasp.

"So many," they said in unison. Charles' ears heard it, the brain stored it away for consideration later.

"They all think they're alone," Raven said, sometime later.

"They're just children," Erik said.

And then….

"Come on, Charles. Time to come back."

Raven's voice. "He's never gone so far before."

Hank's, with a rising note of panic. "Cerebro is off. The computer's still on, but the connection to the antenna is off, the amplification circuits are off, why is he--?"

"Raven, what do you do when he goes like this?" No-nonsense Erik.

"I don't. He never goes like this. That could work, maybe?"

"-- _fine_ \--"

"What? Charles, was that you?"

"I'm fine." Charles felt his lips move, felt his lungs push air over his vocal cords. He tried again, making the two things happen at the same time. "I'm fine." he whispered, and opened his eyes.

Erik's flat hand was poised above him, ready to slap him. Again.

"Does my cheek hurt because you slapped me?" he asked Erik, a scientist seeking facts, without any sense of rancor.

"Hopefully. For all we know, the electrodes on that upside-down colander may have fried all the nerves in your head."

"Surely _you_ can tell, Erik." Charles closed his eyes again, feeling for any other lingering side effects. "The electric and magnetic fields are so closely related, after all."

"Well, yes… It's because I slapped you." Erik's voice held relief and perhaps a bit of hysterical laughter.

"As your sister, I gave him permission, Charles. Please don't turn his brain off because he displeased you."

Charles cracked open a single eye, looked in her direction, and saw that she had a bit of that hysterical edge, as well. Maybe it was contagious. "And why am I lying on the floor?" he asked.

"That's my fault," Hank's voice carried over from the control panel, where he was firmly, perhaps permanently, rooted in place. "You collapsed as soon as I cut power to the relay, there's leakage somewhere in that circuit, and, well, I'm going to have to fix that and test it before you can hook up to it again. It could be that some lines were left floating, and that might have generated EM noise that could have kept a switch open…"

"Adorable," Charles muttered. "At least I'm that."

"C'mon, lab rat, let's see if you can get up." Erik said, slipping his hand under Charles' head to support it as he and Raven took his arms and pulled him upright to a seated position. Stars blossomed in Charles' head and everyone in the room said "ow;" Erik lifted him into Hank's chair, pushed him forward so his head was between his knees. "We'll just wait it out here, then." His hand was on the back of Charles' neck, holding him steady, his thumb rubbing a soothing little circle at the base of his skull. "Just breathe."

Charles breathed. Hank fretted over Cerebro, turning off its subsystems one by one and scratching notes in his lab book, shooting occasional furtive looks in his direction. Raven took Erik's place, and a while later, Erik returned with a tray of tea and bologna sandwiches with the crusts cut off. By then Charles was sitting on the floor, leaning against the cabinet that housed the Cerebro computer components. He was no longer projecting every ache and pain, and had just started to sense the identities and location of people in his immediate vicinity again.

"I told the nice ladies in the cafeteria that it was tea time, and this is what they came up with." Erik placed the tray on the floor at Charles' side and looked at it -- and him -- dubiously. "I assume you're either starving or nauseous, and probably both, but I'd rather you just say so, instead of making me feel it precisely."

"Both," Charles said with a tired smile. "I am so sorry about my… loss of control."

"It was a _complete disaster_ , Charles." Raven said, sitting at his left with her legs tucked almost daintily under her. She was smiling to show she was teasing, but there was a mocking edge to it. Even in his current state, unable to distinguish surface thoughts or feelings from so much white noise, he recognized his own words thrown back at him. "It doesn’t bear thinking."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," he recited, handing her one of the cups.

"Whereas quotation is merely a serviceable substitute," she replied, and her smile softened. They said "Tchin-tchin," simultaneously and tapped their teacups together, calling a truce on their old argument.

Charles looked up to see Erik standing over them, a quizzical expression playing across his features. "Some tea, vicar?" he lifted a cup off the tray and held it out.

"Don't mind if I do," Erik said. He took the cup and fell smoothly to sit cross-legged a respectful distance from the siblings.

"Hank?" Charles asked. "Tea?"

"No thanks!" Hank's voice was oddly muffled.

"He's buried in that machine," Raven leaned forward and explained in a stage whisper. "And he's got a giant thermos of coffee that he refills three times a day. Don't take it personally." She gave Charles a funny look. "Well?"

Charles shook his head and sighed. "I can sense that you want my attention, but nothing more than that."

Raven reached out and took his free hand in hers. "I'm sorry. Do you want me to stay with you until it comes back? I actually found a lounge with a bunch of games, we could borrow a chess set."

"At this rate it's going to take hours. Didn't you say earlier there was something you wanted to do this evening?" Charles squeezed her hand and let it go, took another fortifying sip of tea. It was wretched tea, weak and tasteless, but it still had the nigh-magical property of _tea_ ness, and it would suffice. Raven shrugged and looked away.

"I play chess." Erik said, instantly winning grateful smiles from both of them.

"That would be delightful!" Charles said, as Raven said emphatically "I _hate_ chess!" They turned to look at each other for another long, drawn-out moment. "Well?" Raven asked. "You enjoy this far too much," Charles accused her, and she threw back her head and laughed. Then she slipped her arm through his and started to get up.

"Hank will take care of the sandwiches, he _loves_ bologna. I'll get Charles to the lounge; will you take care of the rest?" she asked Erik, all innocence. "He probably needs a drink."

"Can you manage?" Erik asked, unreadable.

"I can walk," Charles told him. "Now." The tea helped. He wasn't certain if the sandwiches would have.

"And I'll keep him from walking into walls until his brain turns on again," Raven said. "It's the lounge up on the fourth floor, by the stairs just past the cafeteria."

"I know where to find it."

"And you know where to find me," Charles said with a smile, wishing so very much that he could get some sense of what Erik was thinking during that whole exchange.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

  
October 5, 1962  
8:30 am  
Secret CIA Facility, Meeting Room, #134a  


  


* * *

The accounting specialist was efficient; nonetheless, it took a considerable amount of time for Erik and Charles and Moira to dot every **i** and cross every **t** _in triplicate_. Charles didn't get to Hank's lab until after lunch, and found that Hank had already been told by the Man In Black what his doom would be.

"What are they thinking?!?" Hank's voice was somewhere between condescending and panicked, a fairly complicated expression to pull off, really. "My report was absolutely clear about the amount of work that needs to be done."

"Well, yes," Charles said, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "But you knew when you wrote it what they would do."

Hank grimaced to himself, then nodded and met Charles' eyes sheepishly. "And you know I've been working on it for the past 14 hours straight, don't you?"

Charles nodded. "The circles under your eyes give it away. And Raven may have mentioned it, too."

"That doesn't mean you didn't read my mind." Hank pointed out.

"True. I'm sorry, I can't help hearing loud thoughts; and when people are exhausted, they tend to start shouting in their heads to try to stay awake. I haven't figured out the psychic equivalent of ear plugs yet." He'd meant it as a little joke.

"Well, you could probably develop a sort of Faraday cage, inverting what Cerebro does--" Hank was grasping for the familiar. Telepaths reading his mind wasn't familiar; trying to figure out how to apply a technology he had at hand to solve a different problem was.

Charles chuckled softly. It was a promising approach, of course, and he was quickly learning how swift Hank's mind worked. But he also recognized Hank's tendency to work straight through hunger, thirst, and the need for sleep; so he left Hank with an admonition to get some rest before tackling the second half of the task, and a firm reminder that they wouldn't be ready for the resumption of the Cerebro experiment until noon. If there was a mental nudge accompanying the admonition, it was very slight, and hardly anything at all.

And while Hank napped, Charles had a date -- of sorts -- with Erik at the gym.

* * *

  
October 5, 1962  
1:00 pm  
Secret CIA Facility, Small Gym, #B-171  


  


* * *

Raven insisted on watching. Erik said he didn't mind. Charles tried not to look mortified.

"Your left hand is down and behind you a bit -- keep that hand in front of you. We're not fencing, that's a sport."

"And you know what Aunt Beatrice says about fencing," Raven added from the sidelines.

When Erik gave him that questioning look, Charles explained, "She would always describe fencing as flirting with swords."

"A foil is hardly a sword," Erik pointed out. "And again, this is fighting, not a sport,” he reiterated as he began to circle around Charles slowly, reorienting them to put Raven on Charles' left side. “It's completely different."

"I always thought fencing was flirting, too! Charles started fencing when he was 16," Raven continued with a wicked grin in her voice. "At an all-boy's--" Charles lunged in Erik's general direction, refusing to hear whatever embarrassing story Raven was trying to tell; Erik made a quick gesture and the knife twisted out of his hand, to smack against the wall and clatter to the floor.

Raven, being quite the brat, applauded.

Charles stood up and gave her a quick glare; he would have come up with some clever way of dressing her down, but Erik pressed the handle of the knife into his hand and stood in front of him again.

"Raven, do you want to see a disarm you can do?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered immediately, standing up straighter. "Please!"

Erik nodded graciously, and turned to Charles, spreading his hands at a slight angle from his body, just about level with his waist. "Whenever you're ready," he said calmly.

Charles did the same thing as before -- held the knife in his right hand with his left hand counterbalancing behind him, then lunged forward with his right leg to close the distance. But Erik sidestepped and closed the gap just as Charles started to move; he felt a quick pressure run down his arm, then the knife was popped out of his hand and his arm was being twisted and swung behind him. He had barely enough time to stop his feet and try to find his balance -- but he was being held against the length of Erik's body just enough that he couldn't quite -- and Erik's chin was pressed against the back of his head, the heat from his breath spreading down the back of his neck.

Sincerely hoping that this wouldn't devolve into a wrestling match in front of his sister, Charles snuck a peek, only to find that Raven was staring at him with her eyes open wide and fearful.

The knife was at his throat, not quite touching.

"Charles knows I'd never hurt him," Erik said, lowering the knife, but still balancing Charles' weight against him, keeping him in place by a single hold at his wrist and a carefully positioned knee. "Otherwise I'd never try this. We'll get you one of those practice knives from the head trainer, and you can practice against me tomorrow morning."

"Why not now?" Raven asked, still somewhat shaken, but regaining her demeanor quickly.

Erik smiled and looked sideways at Charles, all teeth and mischief. "I'm not done with your brother yet."

"Oh. I… guess I'll go check to see if Hank needs help twisting wires or something," Raven was backing away slowly, palms out in the universal "I'm not a threat" posture.

Charles very pointedly did not rub his wrist when Erik released him. He didn't respond to Raven's curious look, either; he just waited patiently until she left, waging his battle against his ego in silence before turning to Erik and telling him the truth.

"I... Look, I've never really learned how to fight." _God_ , but Charles was glad they had this small gym to themselves now. This day was promising to be one of the more embarrassing ones for him, if not _the_ most embarrassing.

"OK. Throw a punch." Erik looked at him with an eyebrow raised. When Charles just kept looking at him with that tight, slightly worried expression, Erik sighed and willed his shoulders to relax, to try to be less intimidating. "Charles, I'll teach you the same as I'll teach the recruits. It's alright to start from scratch."

"No, really."

"It's okay to expect others to learn new things, but the _professor_ doesn't need to learn anything new? Or just doesn't want to?"

Charles hated being called lazy, almost as much as he hated being manipulated. "I know you're impugning my pride on purpose," he grumbled. Erik raised his eyebrows, pretending to be innocent, but the smile playing at the corner of his lips gave him away. "But I can't deny you're right," Charles admitted, and stepped one leg back, making an effort to mimic Erik's ready-for-anything stance and raising his hands in fists. If he was perhaps too tentative about it, Erik didn't bother to comment, he just raised his open hands and nodded.

"We'll start simply: you throw your fist at me, I'll block it. Then I'll tell you how to do it better, and you'll try again. Go."

Charles threw a punch. Erik didn't actually have to block it, because Charles was too far away and it wouldn't have landed, but Erik reached out to catch it in the palm of his hand and swept Charles' arm across his body, anyway.

"Try that again, exactly the same."

This time Erik didn't bother to block, and Charles was surprised to find that even when his arm was fully outstretched, he still missed his mark. Erik couldn't help smirking, and just for that, Charles leaned forward and closed the distance, bopping Erik's nose gently with his knuckles. He knew he was being childish even as he did it, but that didn't stop him.

"I'm not your sister, Charles, that won't work." Erik said, laughing. Then he got serious. "And Raven's a lot better at this than you, you know. I actually have to pay attention when she's trying to hit me. So do it again, and get in close where you have to be."

Fifteen minutes later Charles had not gotten any closer to actually sparring with Erik, who was paying attention only because Charles's attempted punches had become even sloppier and further from their mark. "Alright, stop." Erik held a hand up with the palm facing Charles, and when Charles sagged gratefully with a sigh, he ran that hand through his hair and clasped the back of his neck, turning away to regard the distance for a while. Erik's whole body sang with frustration. "Maybe we should focus on making sure you just don't get hit."

"Oh, that's easy," Charles said.

Erik's attention snapped back to him immediately. "Really," he said, and the word could have been a question if it had been inflected that way, but instead it was a statement of annoyance and disbelief. Even without telepathy, it was obvious to Charles that he'd managed to insult Erik somehow.

"I meant to say, it's easy to stop a single human from hitting me," he frowned at the memory, "or two, if they're drunk."

"Why don't you show me?" Erik asked.

"Alright," Charles sighed, not really wanting to dredge up _those_ particular memories to share, but raising his fingers to his temple anyway. So he was almost ready when Erik's fist came flying into his peripheral vision, and even as the threw himself back by sheer reflex, he also reached forward with his mind and _held_ Erik in place. The comfort of that mental grip was surprising, and holding Erik took less concentration than holding anyone else had been -- not Agent Levene when Charles was showing off his powers to Moira, not his abusive stepfather, not even those two drunken fraternity brothers out "ridding the bars of queers" that night. Erik was easy.

"Sorry, my friend," Charles said, hoping Erik wouldn't finish the punch as he gently, carefully released his control. "You caught me off guard; I was just going to share my more salient memories with you, I didn't intend to give you a demonstration." He patted Erik's shoulder when it appeared Erik _wouldn't_ haul off and hit him for taking such a liberty, and all he got was a rueful smile and a shake of the head.

"You shouldn't hold yourself back just for me." Erik lowered his hands and released his fists, but still Charles couldn't relax under his considering stare. "Can you… I suppose if you can stop me, you can make me move?"

"Probably," Charles said quietly, and then added -- because it was obvious Erik wasn't going to let the matter drop -- "Yes. Or at least, I rather suspect so. I believe it depends on the situation, and I seem to have an… affinity… for some people more than others, but because it's so" -- _distasteful_ \-- "invasive, I honestly haven't done it enough to explore what my limitations are. In that respect."

"Well, you can practice on me," Erik said, relief creeping into his voice. "It will be a more effective use of our time than me trying to teach you how to fight like a human."

Charles appreciated that Erik was trying to keep it light, even though the outer edge of Erik's mind was full of resignation to the notion that Charles was a hopeless case as far as hand-to-hand combat went, and that this was a disappointment, because Erik wanted to be useful and being useful here seemed to depend on being able to teach what he took for granted in himself to others, and… As Charles slipped into that space in Erik's mind from which he could control Erik's body, he felt a growing sense of protectiveness. Just _whose_ sense, though, was hard to tell; Charles would have to reexamine himself later that night, in the private space of his own mind, to see if it was his.

He tentatively stood with his hand up, fingers pressed against his temple, and willed Erik to step into his ready stance. He tried a left jab followed by a right hook; if he _listened_ carefully, he could feel how Erik's response to performing each movement was to prepare for another attack, strings of possible moves ready in his mind for Charles to choose from, much the same way Charles tracked contingencies and manipulations in chess. Except here, the ideas were lifted from muscle memory, and the easiest to perform were the easiest to choose from the way they felt, like a bead of water selecting the path of least resistance as it slides down a glass in response to gravity. Natural. Erik was the easiest person to control physically that Charles had ever attempted, as if he were a knife fitted perfectly for Charles' hand --

That thought was Erik's, and it left Charles feeling deeply uncomfortable, unnerved down to the marrow of his bones. It was incredible that Erik had so much sense of self that he was able to string together coherent thoughts even while his eyes had that glassy stare; that he chose to think _that_ and be _pleased_ about it at the same time was too much for Charles. He relinquished his control back to Erik.

"What?" Erik asked, blinking. "I'm standing, so you must not have knocked me out, but I feel like I just came to. What happened?" He looked at the clock on the wall. "I'm missing… almost 5 minutes." He frowned, looked at the floor.

"Here, let me give it back to you," and Charles bundled up his exterior memory of the past 5 minutes -- only what had physically occurred -- and tucked it in the small hole in Erik's recent memory, careful not to interfere with Erik's own foggy memories of his mental processes while Charles had taken control.

"Ah." Erik looked thoughtful. "I think I just remembered. That was you?"

Charles nodded and bit his lower lip.

Erik sighed, then smiled and shook his head, that familiar gesture from the first time they'd met. "5 minutes is not very long. Can't you control me longer than that? I haven't even broken a sweat."

"Controlling you isn't about making you break a sweat, and besides which, that would be easy, and therefore an _ineffective_ use of our time," Charles explained, going into lecture mode and ticking off the reasons on his fingers. "It's about making your movements seem natural so that, firstly, you don't feel anything out of the ordinary, secondly, people who know you don't see anything out of the ordinary, and thirdly, so I can make you do things that I don't know or can't do myself." Charles gasped at his own words. "I've got an idea -- let me try something different this time."

Charles went to pick up the knife that had been discarded on the floor by the wall. He held it distastefully, awkwardly in his right hand, outstretched at chest-height and pointing in Erik's general direction. He raised his left hand to his head again, resting his fingers against his temple. "Try closing your eyes," he told Erik, "tell me when you can feel it, and what you think I'm doing."

Erik gave Charles a long look, somewhere between distrustful and curious, before curiosity won out. "I trust this is not just a clever way to get out of sparring," he said warningly.

Charles smiled. "Come on, Erik. What do you sense?"

Erik smiled, too, even with his eyes closed. "The knife is in your hand pointed at me. You're wearing a watch on your other wrist, which is about head-height, so I still know where my target is if my goal were to take you out of the fight. And…" Erik frowned, while Charles took a step to the side and lowered the knife a few inches. "I hear you moving, but the knife and the watch are in the same place… and… that doesn't make any sense."

Charles' smile turned into a self-satisfied grin. "It takes almost all my concentration, but I think I've dampened your sense of the electromagnetic fields -- which is a _fascinating_ sensation, by the way -- without interfering with your ability to move or your other faculties. I've done this before with sight and hearing, but never in regards to a mutant's ability, and it's just _different_. I suspect what you're sensing is probably an afterimage, like when you see a bright light and look away." Charles took a step closer without thinking about it, naturally drawn to Erik the way he always was. "Although I've blocked your ability to sense the fields, now the question is whether or not you can still manipulate them, for example, to disarm--?"

“Fine.” Erik said, grim and determined. Charles felt him _reach_ and _twist_ at nothing; he watched as Erik slashed his hands out in a panicked gesture, opening his eyes just as Charles yelled/thought " _Erik, stop!_ "

Caught helplessly between the two of them, Charles saw as Erik saw: the knife curving out of Charles' hand but it was too close; he felt the fields come back into focus just as the knife's point cut through the shirt; he -- Erik -- managed to strengthen the fields so that the knife's trajectory curved, pulling the knife along the skin instead of plunging into it.

Charles had attempted to follow the knife, toppled over and fell to his knees on the ground, the adrenaline dump doing nothing but disorient him further. "Idiot!" he yelled, furious, squeezing his eyes shut and beating a worthless fist against the floor. He launched himself up from the ground and reached for Erik, who was still standing and staring down at the blood beginning to well up in the slash in his side.

"It's not that bad," Erik said. "I've had worse."

Drawn by Charles' shout, a clean-cut and unremarkable G-man poked his head around the corner of the gym. He took in the scene with a glance and offered to fetch the nurse on duty without so much as batting an eye.

"Just a first-aid kit," Erik said, then looked down at the red stain growing on his shirt and the drops of blood starting to spatter the white tiled floor. "And a mop. I can take care of it--"

Charles glared at him. "No, my friend, you are not going to take care of this. This is my fault, and my responsibility, and I am not letting you make it worse just because you can. You shouldn't even be standing!" Charles grabbed him by the elbows and helped him to the floor, and if Erik's knees buckled under him too easily, Charles was too focused on the sensation of bleeding to notice.

"You want me to just lay here and wait?" Erik asked, frustration seeping through his words.

"No, I want you to lie down and _**sleep**_." Erik's head rolled to the side as he went under, his whole body relaxing immediately. Charles remembered the agent too late; the man gasped and would have started to run if Charles hadn't reached out to hold him. _Not you_ , he thought. _I need a first aid kit and a sign on the door that this gym is off-limits_. When the agent returned, Charles took the kit and sent the man on his way with a vague idea that he'd spent the last 10 minutes staring idly into space thinking about Sputnik. He reached out to Raven to ask for help, and she dropped whatever she'd been doing and was on her way, just like that.

"Dammit, Erik," Charles muttered to himself as he got to work. "You have enough scars, I don't need to give you any more." Once he'd gotten the wound clean -- admittedly it wasn't very deep -- he put a bandage on it and wondered how to best apply more pressure to encourage the bleeding to stop while tugging Erik's shirt down to keep the wound -- and visible history of all those other wounds -- hidden. He didn't think Erik would appreciate it if Charles let Raven see all the scars on his back and torso, and Charles had already crossed a line by forcing him to sleep, which was bad enough.

Raven burst in to the gym just as Charles was pressing a hand against Erik's side, the other hand idly tracing the line of Erik's jaw.

"Oh my god, is he--?"

Charles looked up at her, the very picture of guilt. She guessed the rest.

"So the homicidal maniac threw himself at you with the knife, and you put him to sleep. And then he fell on it," she said, unfolding the sweatshirt she'd fetched at his request. "Oh Charles, I knew it had to be something bad. You never ask for my help. Can you get his arms up so I can get this on him to hide the – _ewww_ \-- blood?"

She jerked back when Erik sat up and lifted his arms out towards her, darted a quick glance at her brother.

"No, he's still asleep, I've got him."

"Wow," she said, slipping his hands through the arms and tugging the garment over his head. "You've gotten a lot better at this. That was completely natural."

"I don't think I'm any better at this than I was last year. It's just…" Charles groped for the right word, but couldn't find it. "…He's easy. The easiest person I've ever encountered, really."

"You do know that's really something, coming from you?" Raven asked drily. She smoothed the sweatshirt over Erik's chest, and looked slyly out the corner of her eye at Charles to gauge his reaction. But she held her tongue and kept her surface thoughts in check until they walked Erik to his room.

When they had Erik safely laid out on his bed, she asked if he was going to fill his memory with a fiction of him walking back under his own power. She rolled her eyes when Charles shook his head, put her hands on her hips and demanded, "Why not?"

"I can't be dishonest with him, Raven."

"How about waking him up from across the room? Or across the building? Homicidal maniac, remember?"

"I can't leave him," Charles shrugged unhappily. "To wake up on his own, I mean. It wouldn't be fair." He pulled a chair next to the bed and sat in it, resigned to his fate. He took Erik's hand in his, lifted the other to his head, and looked questioningly at Raven. "Are you ready for this?"

She nodded. Charles reached into Erik, and it felt like dipping his hands into a pool of water and finding the unconscious body below the surface. Erik's eyes fluttered open as if he'd been napping lightly; he squeezed Charles' hand and smiled when he saw him, then turned his head, frowning, when he realized Raven was in the room.

Raven beamed at them, and that's when Charles understood that she'd been ready and waiting for this moment since she first saw Charles with his hands on Erik in the gym. "Aunt Beatrice _also_ always said Charles was terrible at flirting, _especially_ with swords, and apparently that's true for knives, too. You should stick to chess, it's less dangerous." And then she ran out the door.

"She just _sniggered_ at us," Charles said with disgust.

"Yes, she did," Erik agreed. He snaked a hand under his shirt and touched the bandage with barely a grimace. "Thank you for patching me up. I'll see you tomorrow morning at 8 for our run."

"But--"

"Charles," Erik cut him off, his tone of voice so serious it hurt. "I'll take care of myself now." He spoke out loud for the benefit of eavesdroppers, including Raven, who was turning out to be sneakier than he'd expected and might not have run very far; he thought out loud for Charles only: " _You know I've had worse. A scratch by my own knife is nothing_."

"It's a bloody lot of nothing," Charles grumbled. But he let go of Erik's hand and stood up to move to the door, pausing for one last concerned look. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to get hurt."

Erik gave a short laugh, wincing, and looked at him with appraising eyes. "I don't get hurt easily, Charles. Only the best of men can do that." And bloody hell, but he _smiled_ , and his smile was an offer that Charles couldn't take him up on. Not here, not now, and not when he'd just compared Charles to Sebastian Shaw.

He didn't run away, but he _did_ leave without so much as a backward glance. It was practically the same thing.

* * *

  
October 5, 1962  
12:30 pm  
Secret CIA Facility, Cerebro Installation  


  


* * *

"You ready for this?" Raven asked Charles, with her shoulders held back and her hands on her hips, doing a frighteningly good impression of Moira.

She was trying to hide her worry under bravado, and it would have fooled most people, but certainly not her brother, telepath or not. Charles put his hand on her shoulder, gave it a little squeeze. "I've got a better idea of what's in store this time." He looked around the interior of Cerebro at the improvements Hank had made late last night. It appeared that Hank had requisitioned a treasure trove of black canvass straps from some secret ops team's storage locker, and used them to secure nondescript polyester cushions over every potentially sharp edge around the platform. "The cushions are lovely," he ventured.

Erik was unimpressed. "A chair would work better." He spoke as though he were simply stating the obvious, but the undercurrent of annoyance was hard to miss.

"The wires are too short," Hank snapped back.

"Make longer ones."

"We don't have enough source material on hand because it _hasn't been mined yet_. And even if we did, it took a month to get the wiring right the first time, and I just spent 14 hours modifying the design to reduce feedbacks--"

"And Charles is used to standing for hours, anyway." Raven piped up before Erik could say something else cutting. "Helps him keep that girlish figure."

"Please don't give away _all_ my secrets, Raven," Charles said, smiling, willing everyone to relax just a little. And trying not to look at Erik. Or be too obvious about _not_ looking at Erik. He needed a clear head in case he lost control and started projecting again.

Using Cerebro repeatedly was exhilarating in a different way. Charles was not reduced to a puddle on the floor by any surprise electrical effects of the system, but by his own relentless drive. The first day, they tried to do 40 minutes on, with 20 minute recoveries in between, but after the first two short sessions, Charles decided that 55 minutes on and 10 minutes in-between would be sufficient. The second day, Erik decided that he needed half an hour of working with Cerebro in its active state -- being driven by Charles -- before he had a good enough feel of the device's _flow_ in order to help redirect it to make it more efficient. Hank had to admit that the data agreed with Erik's assessment, even though he worried about the effect of extended periods of use; but Charles was so thrilled about how wonderfully Cerebro worked when Erik was holding it in sync with him that Hank's misgivings fell to the wayside in the mutual pursuit of scientific beauty, and so Cerebro sessions extended to 4 hours at a time, with a short break for supper. Supper usually consisted of several cups of coffee (Hank and Erik) or tea (Raven and Charles), with a mystery-meat sandwich to provide a cushion for the caffeine. It was decidedly tolerable.

On the third day, Charles tried to skip the meal altogether, but Hank had started a diagnostics program as soon as he broke contact with Raven and the machine, so he had to wait. Erik threatened to force feed him if Charles didn't at least drink his tea, and when he tried to protest, Erik growled "I won't let you abandon us to the paper-pushing sharks" like it was the worst thing imaginable. But just underneath his words, lying there on the surface of his mind where Charles couldn't help but see, was a memory of gaunt figures being worked to death as part of an experiment on calorie limitation; so Charles drank his tea, and Erik's smile didn't reach his eyes.

Charles was too exhausted to dream his own dreams that night. He caught snippets of ordinary dreamers' subconscious narratives, instead -- most were dreams about work, or worries about the kids, or showing up to school having forgotten about the day's test, the locker's combination, or getting dressed. Then there was the Mirror Dream, in which Raven wandered from room to room looking desperately for something she'd misplaced, and every mirror reflected somebody else; Charles retreated from that automatically, before she became aware of his presence and threw him out. In the end, he came to rest in a dream about a boy in a library. The library was expansive, the furniture oversized and heavy, and the sweet and musty smell of the books filled the senses. A large, solid desk took up the entire center of the room, and on the desk was a coin.

A large hand at the back of the neck forced the boy forward, pushed him against the desk, shoved his face on the hardwood so that the coin loomed large in his vision. Charles knew what came next, and he tried to rewrite it, to change the dream so that the knife did not cut through his clothes and skin, so that the coin did not betray him by refusing to move, so that the guilt and the pain and the shame could be avoided. But it wasn't his dream, and he had never been able to affect the subconscious mind of another as he could the conscious mind. The coin stayed immobile; the knife cut his back to shreds; and the man holding him down said "You and I are having so much fun, together, aren't we?"

Charles woke in the middle of the night with the taste of bile at the back of his throat. He managed to get himself to his private bathroom just in time; mostly all he had to throw up was weak tea and Wonderbread, both fairly benign, all things considered. After he had rinsed his mouth and stumbled back to the bed, he laid in the darkness and stared at the ceiling without seeing it -- his attention was down the hall and around the corner, where all the scars on Erik's back felt like they were open wounds again.

The fourth day was the worst. Like a new surfer always paddling a little further out in the hopes of catching a better set, Charles was pushing himself into greater and greater exhaustion each time he donned the electrode-encrusted helmet. It was beginning to wear on Raven as well; for as long as Charles was using Cerebro, she stood in front of the platform with her back to him, so he could rest his hands on her shoulders and maintain a direct, grounded connection, avoiding the uncontrolled projection that plagued the first experiment. She shifted into the form of each mutant on which they achieved a solid lock, and with Erik tending to Cerebro, there were times when she was shifting every 30 seconds. By suppertime she was threatening to shift into Charles and streak through the cafeteria if they didn't call it off for the day. Charles swore and called her petty. She swore and called him inhuman.

Erik announced that they were all inhuman.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Charles had more than enough time to reflect that Erik, for all that he was not telepathic and not terribly comfortable in most social situations, was efficient in both observation and communication. If there was an elephant in the room, Erik would have pointed it out, shot it, and taken the tusks for trophies before anyone else had begun the task of carefully avoiding the lumbering beast.

" _That's a harsh way of putting it_ ," Charles thought at Erik.

" _Tell me I'm wrong_ ," Erik challenged him silently.

"Well, it's not the word I would have chosen," Charles allowed. "We are, after all, somewhat _more_ than human, I would say." He risked a glance in Erik's direction, was rewarded by Erik's hard gaze softening and the tense line of his jaw relaxing ever so slightly, which in turn loosened something in himself. "And we have to face Shaw, because humans don't have a chance against him." He couldn't help the sigh. "But we also need to be honest about these deadlines. Hank, how many possible recruits have we identified so far?"

"24," he responded immediately. "I've been keeping track."

" _But not speaking up. I should have been paying more attention._ " Charles thought, curling his hand into a fist. He let it go, telling himself to relax, reminding himself that being a leader meant he had to actually work at leading. "Right. We only need to find 6 more; we're doing much better than we expected, since we're working together as a team on this, not just relying on me to meander my way around the planet like a drunken fool."

He looked at Raven, saw how tired she was, saw how she was reflecting how tired _he_ was.

"Let's have some tea, find two more, then get some real food and call it a night. The last 4 can wait until tomorrow. And as soon as we find them, we take the rest of the day off."

The coin was on the desk again that night. The dream went the same way: the face against the desk, the knife at the back, the man's voice, _Shaw's_ voice. This time, however, he found that his hand on the desk gripped another boy's hand, that they were held cruelly in place side-by-side, and when the pressure at the back of his head let up just enough, he twisted around to look the 11 year-old Erik in the face.

Charles' last memory of the dream was the knife plunging into his back while Erik screamed his name.

* * *

  
October 10, 1962  
7:30 am  
Secret CIA Facility, Jogging Trail  


  


* * *

It is always easier to find the mind of someone who is looking for you -- or lying in wait, impatient and agitated. " _Charles. We have to talk about last night._ " Erik had chosen the maintenance shed where the running trail left the manicured lawn and entered the neighboring woods to be the ambush site.

" _Alright_ ," Charles answered, slowing to a stop, dreading what was undoubtedly coming next.

" _Where are Raven and Hank?_ " Erik asked, staring at him with his arms crossed and his lips tight. Charles couldn't help applying the phrase "tightly coiled spring" to the image.

Charles stepped closer to Erik, so the building would obscure the view from the approaching trail. " _Raven's tying her shoes back at the main doors, and Hank's waiting for her._ " He bit his lower lip in sympathy with Erik's obvious unhappiness. " _My friend, I'm sorry. I didn't mean--_ "

Erik sprang, and suddenly Charles was pressed up against the bricks, Erik's mouth hot on his, Erik's hand on Charles' waist. He floundered, torn between wanting to fall to his knees right then and there -- the past several days had been excruciating, being in the same room and _knowing_ and not being able to act on it was somehow worse than not knowing had been, and so he'd avoided looking and touching and being too near -- and the simple, base panic that they would be discovered and wouldn't get another chance. " _Raven's coming! Damn it all, not NOW!_ " he pushed at Erik, horrified as he felt Raven and Hank begin to draw near. Erik stayed where he was, leaning over Charles and effectively trapping him against the wall between his arms, his eyes smoldering in the way that said "bedroom," not "morning run in gray sweatsuits," until the sound of footsteps on the gravel could be clearly heard and Erik's expression turned into a scowl.

"Stay out of my dreams, Charles," he spat out. To Raven and Hank, he merely growled, "you're late, so we're going to have to run faster to make up the time." Then he set off at a pace that did not lend itself to their usual early-morning group banter.

" _Charles?_ "

" _Yes, Raven?_ "

" _What did you do to piss his off this time?_ "

" _What do you mean by 'this time'?_ "

Raven spared him an unbelieving glance, as they turned a corner and found Hank and Erik once more in their view.

" _You haven't noticed how often he's been glaring at you these past few days?_ "

" _I haven't been looking._ "

Raven managed to draw in a deep enough breath to laugh. " _Well, maybe that's the problem. You're going to be stuck in a long series of small hotel rooms together real soon, so you'd better start paying attention._ " She looked over her shoulder at him and picked up her pace a bit. " _Or… I'll take him, if you don't want him. I'm not above a hand-me-down._ "

Charles had to sprint to give her a shove, but it was worth it, if only for the glare of indignation he won from her when he yelled "tag!" and raced past. He managed to pass Hank just in time to be spared the dreaded designation of “it.” Erik was well out of their reach, and focused only on the cold shower that waited at the end of the run.

* * *

  
October 11, 1962  
On the Road in a Buick Electra  


  


* * *

Charles had been looking forward to the idea of a hotel room for 5 fucking days.

Two men, traveling together, and on Uncle Sam's dime. They're expected to share a double room to cut costs, because the American Public requires fiscal responsibility of its federal employees. They even sleep in both beds, although that was more because Charles preferred to sleep in clean sheets, and Erik hardly slept anyway.

Charles had been nervous the entire drive from the location of the secret CIA facility -- he reflected that the phrase "my secret base," although completely ridiculous, recalled the more innocent moments of childhood, and he would rather enjoy saying it in earnest someday -- so much so that his thoughts kept skittering to pure nonsense whenever they started to dwell too long on his driving partner. As long as he was driving, it was fine -- he spent all his concentration keeping all the other drivers safely on the road and unobtrusively out of his way, changing lanes or speeds to accommodate his last-minute turns. Once, when he had to cross three lanes of traffic to get off the turnpike at the very last moment, he crossly asked why, exactly, Erik couldn't pay better attention to the map and the signs, when he had the map in his lap and was staring out the window at the signs the whole time?

"You're distracting," was all Erik said.

When Erik drove, though, it was worse. He somehow coaxed -- no, _his unique mutation enabled him_ to coax the standard-issue Buick, which billed itself as "the clean look of action," to speeds its makers probably had only intended to evoke, not actually achieve. Fortunately he did this only on the long, flat stretches of the road in between rush hours. Still, Charles had to act quickly on two separate occasions to keep police officers from calling in the speeder who wouldn't slow down, G-men or not.

"Have you sensed her yet?" Erik asked once. Then he asked it every ten minutes, each time interrupting a perfectly good daydream by tapping Charles lightly on the thigh, or placing a hand on his shoulder. "No," Charles said the first time, and the next time, and the time after that, and each time he wondered what Erik would do to wake him if he feigned sleep. But finally, when he really was drifting off to sleep, having been absolutely mesmerized by the road slipping beneath the yellow pools of the car's headlights like a river, he felt himself rolling towards Erik when that familiar touch came.

"Yes!" He lurched upright, answering Erik's question before he'd gotten past the "Have you--" part.

"And?"

"Oh, ah." Charles hastily drew back. "She's working. It's… you know, I don't think we should interrupt her tonight. We should go first thing tomorrow, as soon as her shift starts, when she'll be more open to listening to what… _anything_ men have to say, actually. Since we're men."

"Well, then." Erik nodded, staring straight ahead. "We'll go straight to the hotel. For tonight."

"It'll still be early when we get there," Charles mused, meaning _before midnight, at least_. "Especially given the way you drive."

Erik's profile was lit dimly by the lights on the dash, but even so, his grin was unmistakable. "When we're done saving the world, what do you think of becoming a rally car racing team? Did you notice no one cut us off all day? I did."

"Hmmn, yes. I'm just glad this clunker hasn't thrown a… spark plug… or something." The sign welcoming them to the city flashed by; streetlamps were now showing up at regular intervals, decreasing the periods of darkness through which they travelled. When the streetlamps were spaced so closely together that the car glided forwarded under a constant blanket of light, Charles abruptly picked the conversation up again: "So, we could play a game of chess, before turning in for the night,"

"Or we could go to a bar in Angel's neighborhood," Erik said slowly, pulling into the parking lot of the first Travelodge they found. "Check out the area, and _then_ we can play a game of chess."

"Or we could just go to a bar," Charles offered. He had given considerable thought to this problem over the past several days, and concluded that chess was something they should reserve for those times when other options weren't available to them. They grabbed their duffel bags from the trunk that _was large enough for the two of them, if they were trussed up and beaten like the queers they look like_ \-- Charles turned to follow the morbid thought, and found himself glaring at a slovenly man crossing the street behind them, practically shouting in a drunken haze, “ _and don’t they look like queers sneaking into a hotel at this hour?_ ” Erik frowned and followed his gaze, then shrugged.

"One human by himself can't harm the two of us," he said quietly.

"It was just a random thought," Charles said, slamming the trunk shut.

"We can take him down, if you'd like." With his head up, shoulders back, and his lips curved upwards in a light smile that didn't match the intensity in his eyes, Erik was watching the man who was now sauntering away down the street and throwing furtive glances over his shoulder at them.

"No, Erik, there's no point. There will always be bigots."

"True," Erik said, considering. "But there could be one less." Then he turned that bright smile on Charles, the one that always made him feel like the sun had come out just for him, and Charles felt that little flip in the pit of his stomach, the damn _butterflies_ , even though what Erik said scared him a little, and with good reason. He knew Erik had killed men before -- killed to survive, killed in honest and justifiable rage, and, more recently, in colder blood -- but he also knew that he, Charles, was a good person in spite of all his little foibles, and as such, it wasn't possible for him to love someone who wasn't good at their core. Good people sometimes do bad things, he knew. History is full of examples.

He flicked his tongue over his lower lip and thought to himself _Maybe it's a bit premature to be talking of love just yet_.

Erik gave a throaty laugh and shook his head, patting Charles' shoulder and turning them towards the door to the motel office. "Let's hurry up and get you a drink, shall we?" Erik said, "Before I do something stupid."

\- - - - - -

The advertising agencies have made it very clear: Travelodges are for budget-conscious travelers who are looking for adventure. They are generally located in downtown areas, conveniently close to churches, shops, and bars. In point of fact, there were two bars and one tavern across the street, and Erik let Charles guide the way to the one that had the nicest people in it. He let him choose their beers -- Erik genuinely wanted to drink whatever Charles wanted him to, which was the first time Charles had ever experienced that particularly circular drink preference. He let him eat the last of the beer nuts, but that was partly because Erik was getting enthralled with the way Charles bit the pad of his thumb when licking the salt off his fingers, and wasn't bothering to try to keep his thoughts quiet about it. He even let Charles win at darts, and there was _no_ explanation for that.

So Charles was pleased when they got back to their room and Erik swore in surprise when he produced the dart from under his sleeve.

"How did you do that? I could feel all the other bits of metal on you all day, but not that until just now."

Charles couldn't help smiling a little, thought he supposed it wasn't exactly a nice smile. "Humor me," he said. He placed the dart in Erik's palm, resisting the urge to leave his fingers curled there, and stepped over to the window. He pulled the curtains away from the wall, used the ballpoint pen he took from the bar to make a small dot on the casement. "Throw the dart there," he said, standing with his shoulder barely two inches from the spot.

He heard the dart's point slide into the wood even as he was turning back to face Erik.

"See? Perfect. Your aim is perfect, even after four pints. I can guarantee you I can't do that, even cold-sober, even if I were only standing a yard away. And yet, tonight I beat you at darts." Charles left the dart where it was, letting the curtain fall over it, hiding it in the folds of fabric. "Care to explain?"

Erik stood tight-lipped, unmoving, undecided. Just like that first night outside the CIA, torn between two things that were impossible to reconcile. The set of his jaw indicated that bullish, immobile, stubborn refusal to give in; so at odds with his eyes, at turns uncertain, scared, hopeful. Charles watched the struggle play out on his features, waiting for the coin to fall, heads or tails, waiting for Erik to decide whether to tell the truth or not.

"Do you want me to hide what I am for you, or not?" Erik finally asked. Asked, not growled, and that in itself was practically an offer.

"No, I don't want you to hide." Charles answered, ruefully, thinking of that elephant again, and how Erik reserves subtlety only for people he doesn't trust. He was grateful that Erik hadn't been the least bit subtle in regards to him. "I don't want you to scare people unnecessarily, I don't want you to risk being hurt by stupid people who only fear what they don't understand, and I don't want you to _ever_ just let me beat you."

Erik opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again…. and finally just settled on a quizzical expression. "Those things don't all go together," he pointed out. "And when we face Shaw and his people, you know some of those are going be impossible."

Charles shrugged. "We can't always get what we want." Charles took a step forward, calmly approaching Erik like he had all the time in the world. "Erik, you should know this about me -- I spend an awful lot of my time trying not to scare people. It may be that it's indistinguishable from hiding as far as anyone else is concerned, but I'm well aware of what I can do, and I never try to hide from myself, or my friends."

"So why do you ask me to explain myself, when you can just read my mind?" Erik stood his ground, his knee grazing the foot of the bed furthest from the window, as though keeping in mind where the furniture was located. Presumably, it meant Erik was on the edge of a fight-or-flight response, looking for exits in case the situation turned into a trap. And since he looked more perplexed than angry, flight was probably the more likely outcome. _Why, indeed?_ It was a fair question. He ran his tongue over his lips and took a deep breath, another step putting him close enough to Erik that he had to lift his chin to maintain eye contact.

"Why should you be lazy and expect me to do all the work?" Charles asked. Why was it always like this the first time, always so nerve-wracking? He closed the gap, stepped sideways so the wall was to his back, and Erik automatically turned to face him so that _his_ back was to the bed. There were plenty of techniques for manipulation that didn't involve telepathy. Were they more fair? Or just more fun?

He pointed his index finger squarely at Erik's chest and leaned forward and down so that the backs of Erik's knees pressed against the edge of the bed. Erik fell back with a flourish and a quiet _whump!_ when that steadily increasing pressure reached some tipping point. Charles was on him in the next heartbeat, his knees on either side of Erik's thighs, and paused just long enough to project to Erik " _This is what I mean when I say--_ " and said the word "check" out loud before grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck and pulling his head back so Charles could enjoy the stretch of that lovely throat, run his thumb along the line of Erik's jaw and immerse himself in the sheer pleasure Erik felt from being held so firmly in place as he kissed him full on the mouth.

" _So are we playing chess now?_ " Erik wondered, his hands resting on Charles' thighs, pressing down gently but firmly so that his knees sank into the bedspread and their hips pressed together when Erik lifted against him just a little.

" _We're always playing chess,_ " Charles thought back, smiling into the kiss in appreciation. " _Haven't you noticed?_ " He leaned back for a moment, appreciating the new color in Erik's lips and considering his next move. "Here you're pinning my king, as it were, so I'd better do something to distract you." He pulled open the third button on his shirt, tugged it and the sweater off in one swift motion and threw them onto the floor. Erik stiffened even more underneath him; but the smile he won from Erik brought to mind the first one he had given him, that night on the ship when the medical officer had unceremoniously stripped Charles naked in front of his future lover.

"I didn't think you could be more beautiful than you were that first night," Erik said. He placed his palm on Charles collarbone, slid it down his chest to his navel, then curved his hand around his waist and pulled him in for another kiss. His other hand reached up over Charles' shoulder, and the radio in the corner turned on and the music of Miles Davis filled the room. Erik's hand found the back of his neck; Charles indulged him and his possessiveness at first, but then pushed forward, forcing Erik back and lower, until his mouth was even with Charles' nipples.

"Romance is all well and good, Erik, but I expect to get some work from you, you know." Erik seemed to divine what Charles wanted, at least in part; his tongue flicked out, teasing Charles' nipple, playing with the contact. "Teeth," Charles hissed, digging his fingers into Erik's back. "Now." Erik pressed his teeth against the sensitive skin and bit down gently -- and it was good, but still not quite enough. " _ **HARDER**_ ", Charles thought out loud to Erik, and this time he obliged immediately and just the way he liked it, and Charles moaned with the thrill of it as the heat of arousal raced up his back and left him gasping and shuddering and then it was time to let that one go, before the sensation became truly unbearable. Erik's tongue traced across his breastbone, lapped a circle around his other nipple, and Charles saw his glassy gaze and pulled back sharply.

"What?" Erik asked, once he realized Charles was just out of reach, unaware how delayed his reaction was.

"Just kiss me," Charles muttered, fighting the urge to apologize or beg, and holding himself as tight and as still as he could. Guilt and shame were always there in the back of his mind; the first time he'd had sex with a girl, he realized too late once they were done that there was no way of going back after the fact to find out if she had actually wanted to, before his wanting her to overcame whatever she might have thought or felt before. He thought it would be different with boys, but it wasn't. The only solution seemed to be utter passivity, to want nothing, but that was a lie that he couldn't live, either. "This is why I don't -- I can't-- " he struggled for words as his half-formed plan abandoned him.

"Of course you can." Erik rolled to his side and up to his knees, catching Charles firmly around the waist in one fluid motion like the turn of a waltz, and tugged him closer while he sank back down on his heels, neatly reversing their heights so that Charles was once again leaning down to catch Erik's greedy kisses.

"Bloody fucking hell," Charles swore when he had a chance to catch his breath, "why are we still dressed?" He tugged Erik's turtleneck off, and even as he did so, pulling Erik's arms up over his head, Charles heard belt buckles come undone, zippers releasing. Erik's face was upturned like a supplicant, while his hands roamed all over Charles' bare back, down his hips, gripping his ass, slipping his clothes off and out of the way. Some part of Charles still felt the twist from the turn, recalled the slow rotation and continued it, ending with Erik lying on his back underneath him, kicking his pants off. They ground slowly against each other, skin to skin, Erik still kissing him like he's going to die, like he's drowning and kissing is breathing, like he can't believe how good the world is, and if he opens his eyes the dream will come crashing down. It only made Charles hold him harder, pinning him in place.

He was thinking that as long he kept himself firmly in his own mind, then the rest was still Erik's choice to accept or not when Erik reached down to take them both together in one hand, his long fingers curling around the back of Charles' penis easily and sweeping upwards, finding that spot just under the tip that's particularly sensitive on the first time, and Charles' long intake of breath and tiny whimper at the crest gave him away. He opened his eyes to see Erik smiling at him. _God, Charles, your lips_ , he thought, and muttered aloud "Five fucking days" -- and they were kissing again, and Erik was biting his lower lip hungrily and stroking them and it was just too exquisite to think about anything else.

When Charles began to flag, and couldn’t hold himself above Erik anymore because his attention was focused on those bundles of nerves inexorably marching him to the edge and his arms just didn’t seem to care anymore, Erik rolled them over so that Charles was on his back with his head on the pillow and Erik's head was between his legs, alternately sucking and nipping and biting and " _Bloody **fucking** hell, Erik, I can't…_ " and Erik's tongue slipped lower, and Charles had never felt that before and it was really far more pleasant than it had any right to be. "I can't stay in my head if you keep that up!"

Erik dragged his tongue up to the base of his cock, and then up the length of it, his light blue eyes positively sparkling. "So don't," he said, hovering over the tip. "I'm easy for you, Charles. You don't need permission to use what's yours." He swirled his tongue around the tip and played over the slit, and Charles threw his head back with a groan, struggling not to give in. "What?" Erik asked when he felt Charles' hand on his head pushing him away.

"I need your permission, anyway," Charles said hoarsely. "You know what I can do, so you know what it means."

Erik rolled his eyes and flexed his fingers where they rested on Charles' pelvis, pressing the edges of the nails into his skin just enough to be playful. " _Can you hear me, Charles?_ " he thought, sliding forward slowly.

"Yes," Charles responded, his fingers tracing little circles in Erik's hair.

" _Then you have my permission._ "

" _But I can always hear you, Erik._ "

" _Then you always have my permission,_ " Erik answered, taking Charles once again in his mouth, but this time in earnest. Charles quickly found himself torn between curling up so he could grip Erik's shoulders (so muscular, becoming slick with sweat, as were his own) or arching back, lifting his hips up, fucking Erik's delicious mouth, good God, but his tongue was amazing, but wouldn't he rather--

" _Fuck yes,_ " Erik responded, moving forward again, kissing him, nipping at his throat, trying to catch whatever skin between his teeth he could. " _HAVE me, that way, yes!_ " Charles reached up to place his hands on either side of Erik's face, staring into those lovely intense eyes, making sure they weren't glassy at all, and kissed him long and hard in relief and simple want. Heaven help him, but he hadn't had the opportunity to fuck a man like that since his second year at Oxford, and couldn't stop himself from projecting just how very much he wanted to.

A long shudder went through Erik, and he pressed himself up to his elbows so he had the space to look at Charles in something like wonder, to brush aside his sweaty hair that had fallen in his eyes. "Don't deny yourself," he breathed.

Charles slipped a leg out from under Erik, twisted his hip and rolled them over again so that Erik was on his back and Charles was slipping backward off the foot of the bed. He grabbed Erik's legs and pulled them towards him; he felt Erik tucking his lower lip under his teeth as Charles ran his hands up the outside of Erik's thighs, admiring the feel of those strong muscles, before Erik flipped over and pushed his ass nearly within Charles' reach. It was almost the sensation of an itch in the back of his mind that drove Charles to slap Erik's buttcheek, dig his fingers into his hips and tug him the final few inches to be where he wanted him; from Erik he felt only that this was _right_ in the way few things are.

There was barely time to wonder about the logistics of the next step when Erik's small day bag lifted itself onto the bed at his side, the zipper evidently leading the way. Charles could almost feel the fields rippling around his hand as the bag opened to reveal -- tucked between toothbrush and toothpaste and shaving cream and the usual sundries -- a tube of KY.

" _You think of everything, my friend,_ " he thought, and the immediate response was a general feeling of happiness suffusing Erik's awareness. Getting from _here_ to _there_ was a matter of moments, and then Charles was riding bareback, and he ought to be ashamed, really, he was being so damn selfish, but pushing into Erik felt so damn amazing, and Erik's thoughts were nothing but _Yes, Charles, God, Yes, please, harder, FUCK_ , and all he was doing was panting and growling something deep and beautiful in the back of his throat, and Charles had one hand on Erik's lower back, pressing him down, and the other reaching forward to the back of his neck and everything was so slippery and so hot it was like being in a fucking furnace, and it was _glorious_. Erik's hands grabbed the covers like he would rip them apart, and maybe he would, and then suddenly his hands flattened out wide and it made Charles giddy because he finally managed to find the spot in Erik that could bring him to the brink, and damn it all but he was _immensely pleased_ with himself for having managed to do that even while he lost it and came inside Erik, which he hadn't meant to do at all, and it was all a mess, but Erik was coming, too. His shuddering -- Erik's, Charles', it was nearly impossible to tell at that point which feelings belonged to whom, everything was tangled up together in his mind -- hadn't even subsided when Charles collapsed forward, just barely holding himself up on his hands, one on the bedspread under Erik's arm, the other threatening to slide off Erik's shoulder. He slipped out of Erik as slowly and gently as he could manage, barely feeling the twinge of pain underneath all the sensation Erik's mind was full of -- and even that twinge was sweet, with so much pleasure wrapped up in it.

He leaned forward on his shaking arms to kiss the back of Erik's -- _his_ Erik's -- neck, and as he drew back, he finally saw the fine, narrow red lines tracing down from the base of his neck along the inside of the shoulder blade. Made with the point of a very sharp blade, and not yet healed.

" _Erik_ ," he thought, placing his thumb on the tiny wounds, letting his fingers curl over the collarbone. He couldn't bring himself to think the words in Erik's mind, though, so he just said them out loud. "I thought that was just a dream."

Erik answered him with muffled laughter, and without moving anything else, placed his hand on Charles'. He muttered something that sounded like it might be "Damn," and then thought _If you think that was a dream, then I want to have dreams like yours. Every night._

Charles laid himself down on Erik, carefully keeping to the side away from the angry cuts, placing his lips against Erik's neck and the rest of him stretched out to touch as much of Erik as possible. He had felt Erik use his gifts while in his mind often enough that he could recognize it now in the memories of his dreams, the knife on his back and the fields bending to guide it. _Oh Erik_ , he thought out loud, pressing his eyelids tightly shut, so nothing could slip out. _I **want** you to have dreams like mine._

Erik took a deep breath, contented. "Then share them. Just don't come into my dreams, we talked about that. Here--" He twisted underneath him, dumping Charles on his side, then rolled and curled around him.

Charles smiled in the embrace. "I didn't peg you for the cuddling type."

"I'm not," Erik replied gruffly. " _But this way, they have to go through me if they want to get to you._ "

And Charles knew better than to ask who they were.

 

* * *

  
EPILOGUE  
Oct 21, 1962  
11pm  
Xavier Mansion  


  


* * *

Erik found Charles in the library, well after everyone else had settled in for their first night in the Xavier mansion. He was sitting in an armchair in a pose Erik had never seen him in before -- his leg bent and braced against the arm of the chair, his elbow resting on the knee, his head resting in his hand, an empty glass in the other. Staring at the fire. Listening as Erik closed the door behind him, to the little click of the lock sliding in place as its master padded forward on the carpet quietly, hesitantly.

"Yes, Erik,” Charles said quietly, before continuing slowly and with careful enunciation, “I'm going to fall over if not for the geometry."

Erik stalked around the chair and the game table in front of it, walking into Charles' line of sight, and took the glass from his hand without saying a word.

"I'm not sulking." Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't want to look at Erik, didn't want to see himself through Erik's eyes -- but he could hardly avoid it. Even with half the bottle of scotch gone, he couldn't help notice Erik's scent, leather and copper and salt and summer grass. With a side of scotch. "I'm grieving."

Erik stepped quietly back to him, pressed the refilled glass in his hand, tapped his own against it. "For Darwin," he breathed, barely a whisper. Charles opened his eyes to watch him, his… well. His Erik. He watched his Erik settle in the opposing chair, he watched his Erik watch him, and he saw himself as Erik saw him, the light from the fireplace playing tricks, giving him a glow, a little extra illumination; his blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears; beautiful even in sorrow. _If I can hear you, I have permission, and I can always hear you_ , Charles thought mostly to himself, _but sometimes I just can't agree with what I see with your eyes_.

Erik shook his head minutely. "You saw how it happened?" he asked.

Charles took a drink, snorted when he tasted that it had been watered down. He looked back up to find Erik watching him patiently. "Raven asked if she could share the memory with me. She hasn't done that for… since I went to Oxford, really. Then Sean, then Hank. Alex--" he took a break from speaking to finish off the drink and managed not to cough too badly when he accidentally breathed some of it. He waved the glass in the general direction of the table, paused because there wasn't a damn coaster, and hadn't he specifically gotten a coaster when he first sat himself down? But Erik was at his side, taking the glass again, placing it on the floor out of the way, holding his hand so Charles could hold onto something. "Alex will share it with me when he's ready to. It was… I wish it hadn't been him. I wish it hadn't been _anyone_ , but Armando was protecting them, he was doing what _we_ should have been doing, and _we weren't there_."

"No, we thought we were catching Shaw, and instead, Shaw was trying to catch us. Leaving the kids behind was the best decision given what we knew at the time. Armando is a hero."

"But he shouldn't have been made a dead hero." Charles shook his head. "And because of Angel…" he looked over Erik's head, at the fire. "They trust each other a little less, now. They're afraid that if one of them was willing to go over to Shaw, leaving Armando like that, then any of them might break."

"So we have our work cut out for us," Erik said matter-of-factly. "But they're strong kids. All they need is their teacher back."

"Teachers," Charles corrected, letting his eyelids shut. The fire was warm, Erik's hand in his was solid and such a comfort, and though Erik was a tightly coiled spring on most days, he was _his_ tightly coiled spring, and he could rest just a moment, here. The fate of Sebastian Shaw and all those other inevitable things could wait a little longer.


End file.
